


Tony Stark's Sixteenth Problem: The Corruption of Memory

by ballpoint



Category: Marvel
Genre: Angst, Civil War (Marvel), Gen, Magic Realism, Memory, dr strange - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-13
Updated: 2009-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/ballpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark is possessed, and Dr Samson has asked Dr Strange to save him. Strange might find it beyond his ken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tony Stark's Sixteenth Problem: The Corruption of Memory

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Characters and situations are the property of Stan Lee and Marvel Comics. No profit is being made off this fan-written work.**Notes:** British spellings. This fic takes place after _Civil War_, and follows _Iron Man: Haunted_ story arc. Due to events in this fic, there is no _World War Hulk_ nor _ Secret Invasion_. The SHRA is now law, and Tony is the Director of SHIELD. For e_s, who waited too bloody long.   
> **Warnings**: character deaths, some disturbing imagery. Please read no further if a wee bit sensitive.

_"Every minute dies a man, Every minute one is born;" I need hardly point out to you that this calculation would tend to keep the sum total of the world's population in a state of perpetual equipoise, whereas it is a well-known fact that the said sum total is constantly on the increase. I would therefore take the liberty of suggesting that in the next edition of your excellent poem the erroneous calculation to which I refer should be corrected as follows: "Every moment dies a man, And one and a sixteenth is born." I may add that the exact figures are 1.067, but something must, of course, be conceded to the laws of metre. ~Charles Babbage, letter to Alfred, Lord Tennyson, about a couplet in his "The Vision of Sin"_

 

"Dr Strange, thank you very much for coming."

"Dr Samson," Stephen greeted, as he offered his hand. Leonard Samson's handshake was not too firm -to accommodate Strange's damaged hands - but not too limp either. Stephen approved, for one could tell by a lot by man's handshake. "Show me."

If Stephen's imperiousness caught Dr Samson off guard, he did not show it. Rather, he shook his hair back from his shoulders, an unconscious movement. Despite the shock of green hair that hinted of fun, Dr Samson's face was sober, and Stephen felt the first stirrings of… something on his skin.

"Yes," Dr Samson drew the word out, as if he were unsure. "Shall we go to my office first?"

"Director Stark," Stephen said, as he held out his hand, palm up. Dr Samson handed him the folder. Immediately it levitated from his palm into midair. Slowly, with care, the folder opened; the corners of the pages turned by an invisible hand. Stephen started reading, his eyes narrowing at various notes and pictures. "We will exchange notes on the way."

 

The ceilings were high, arcing to various points above their heads. The walls pressed on them like customers in a crowded train.

Their footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors, seemingly bouncing off the walls, the roof, reverberating through the passage. "This is a handsome building," Stephen gave the halls a cursory glance.

"St Vincent's, we're on the older wing. If you notice, the lights along the hallways, old fashioned. Gas."

"Yes," Stephen nodded, "the gas lights do give the place a look." The hall and walls washed in a pale tint of gold. The heavy oak doors stood square in the walls, like tin soldiers on display with simple and luxurious background packaging.

"It's not for the décor," the tone in Dr Sampson's voice was ominous. "It's to shut down his extremis projectile. So far, Director Stark doesn't seem to remember that he has that, thank goodness."

"Indeed."

"For the past year, Director Stark has been displaying signs indicative of schizophrenia. Commander Hill brought it to my attention."

"It's been an odd, odd year." At the snap of Stephen's fingers, the dossier closed itself, and dropped with a soft _thwack_ into his outstretched palm. "As you know, Steve Rogers died, and he and Tony Stark were ... close. The battle over the SHRA ripped the superhero community apart," he knew that his explanation was superfluous at best, but sometimes, it was best to refer to it to make sure that everyone shared the same playing field.

"I remember," Dr Samson gave a curt nod, his hands in his coat pockets. "I know Director Stark threw his weight behind the SHRA, in addition, he's carried out various missions considered to be Black Ops. He's... put himself under a lot of pressure. At first, I thought his seizures were to do with the stress of his existence. He spoke to dead people - Sal Kennedy , Steve Rogers... "

Goosebumps rose along Stephen's skin, and he swallowed, hoping to rid the oily taste at the back of his throat.

He then ran his tongue across his teeth. It really couldn't _be_, but not wanting to prejudice Dr Samson to his viewpoint, he kept silent, walking with his hands clasping the document behind his back, as if he were a priest marking time with his steps.

"Tony - _Director Stark_-" Stephen took great pains to correct himself, because he and Tony parted with chill notes the last time they had seen each other as a part of The Illuminati. In retrospect, it was arrogance to think that they could have been Masters of the Universe. Humph, listen to yourself, Stephen; you're acting like a school boy on the outs with his friend, when something untoward might be breathing down our necks…

But Stephen shut that thought down, and focused on now. Before he became a Sorcerer, he had been a scientist. Hypothesis and independent research amounted to everything. He needed to get the data before coming to a conclusion.

"Dr Samson," Stephen shot a look at his companion. "Before I became who I am, I practised surgery. If it's anything like that…" his voice trailed off. It still vexed, all these years later, to have a dull throb of memory for one's former profession, almost as tangible as the pains in his hands when the weather turned.

Dr Samson dragged a hand down his face, and gave a sharp exhale of breath, as if he were in pain, and Stephen steeled himself for the answer.

"Dr Strange," Dr Samson's features were grim, as they stopped in front of the door that Stephen assumed to be Tony's. "I'm afraid I don't want you for what you were. Rather, I want you for what you _are_."

For the first time in a long, long, long while, Stephen found himself disquieted. He didn't want to say, not before he had the evidence before him.

"Open the door," Stephen commanded, his lab coat and civilian clothing transmogrified into scarlet and light; the Cloak of Levitation clasped around his shoulders and flowed in the eddies of the wind in the corridor, the eye of Agamotto pulsing with light and power at his throat.

"Whatever you do," Stephen snapped as his cloak took to the wind, swirling and billowing around him as if it were caught in a squall. "Don't look, don't come in."

***

 

Leaning over, Leonard Samson pressed the pause button on the remote and studied the picture on the screen. The figures froze in mid motion, Iron Man standing victorious among the rubble, his arms holding a wiry figure above his head. From this viewpoint, with the unnatural angle of Spiderman's head as it lolled to one side…

Play.

The rest of the superheroes stood, forming a wide circle around Iron Man. A close up of Falcon, his eyes wide in disbelief. Ms Marvel falling to one knee, half supported by Spiderwoman, whose arms and gliders wrapped around her shoulders, and drew her close.

New York. By the looks of it, they were in downtown Manhattan, Rockefeller Center in the background. A part from the thunder of the helicopter blades, and the whirring of the camera, nothing but silence. A sudden, uncomfortable swell of stillness, not even a chocked sob, as Iron Man threw Spiderman's body at their feet.

Pause.

Once he understood the implications of the picture - it never failed to unsettle - he pressed PLAY.

_You disobeyed the strictures of the SHRA_, the voice said, its metallic tones a tad more guttural, and… menacing?

Wolverine crouched, his claws out with a flash and _snkt_ , and Leonard swore the air _trembled_ with his snarl.

A spark of flame and smoke, and with a _whoosh_, Iron Man launched up, arcing into the sky, leaving the rest of the meta humans behind. They stood stock still, their bodies and emotions locked in varying stages of shock. Glassy eyed, slack jawed shock. Wolverine stopped, sniffed at the air cautiously, before moving towards the slain hero, put his fingers against Spiderman's neck and shook his head.

Not wanting to see anymore, to intrude on their grief -although the date showed the recording to be a week old- Leonard pressed the button on the remote, fast forward to the next clip.

In the lower right hand corner, the date blinked. That red letter day. _October 05, _

He recognised the office. Not his, just a general 'green room' where psychiatrists and their patients had videotaped interviews, to protect them both. This condition was a note in the Superhero Registration Act, Chapter Five, sub paragraph 20. When meta humans took a life, counselling was compulsory. Director Stark lobbied for that stipulation in the bill.

Tony Stark had his helmet off, and under his arm. He was a far cry from being the wild eyed man of before, agitated due to Dr Samson giving him enforced leave. Tony as he was now, not calm as much as _content_, waiting for the consult to be over. The rain lashed against the windows, water running down the panes of glass like tears.

"What happened back there?" Leonard asked, his voice the textbook non threatening manner of a psychiatrist. Let the patient take the initiative; see where the yellow brick road leads.

"Spiderman violated the Superhuman Registration Act. Paragraph two, subchapter J. If he continued to flaunt the rules, he would have eroded the authority of the bill."

"Tony," Leonard pushed himself from the sofa, spread his arms wide, his gesture non-threatening. "Talk to me. I know you, Tony. You're a man who _feels_ things. You revere friendships, and up to relatively recently -"

"Yes," Tony cut in, his voice flat and cold. "I respected and sacrificed friendships for the right thing. Peter …" he paused, lips twitching with some sort of macabre amusement. "You have to break eggs to make an omelette, Leonard, or else you go hungry."

"This isn't you, Tony. The last time we spoke, you were agitated about everything. About various personalities who haunted your... consciousness, remember? Steve, Sal? You were hurt, you were having halluci-"

Tony's laughter soft, on this side of mocking. "And now I'm not. You gave me two weeks personal leave, remember? Along with your formal psychological assessments. If I hadn't done so, I'd have been sectioned. How quickly we forget."

"You were against that."

Tony threw his helmet up in the air, caught it with his gauntlets with the same ease as if he were playing with a basketball. "And now I'm not. I've passed all your formal psychological assessments with _ease_. You let me back into the field with your blessing."

Nothing but for Leonard to say but, "Yes."

"And now, you mistrust me."

"No," Leonard shook his head. "I don't. I'm just… curious. What accounted for your change of -?" and he couldn't finish the question.

"I had an epiphany," Tony began, raising his gaze from his helmet, and they were still his eyes. The flash of blue in them, the glimmer of mischief that Tony would allow himself at times, if past interviews of happier occasions (note to self: recheck all of old video on Tony Stark) were anything to go by. Tony walked around the office, swiping his gauntlets along the backs of the couches, peering at the drop down screen as if were something new.

"I could," he continued, "still whip myself into a frenzy over those names you speak of, cripple myself over relationships I've outgrown. Or put that aside, and become The Director I needed to be. I made that choice."

"But-"

"All thanks to you," Tony said, as he shed his armour, the red disappearing into the pores of the golden undersuit. "Ah, look at the time. I have a charity function to attend at the Met. Where does it all go?"

Freeze frame. Close up of Tony's face. Everything was still there, but - and Leonard leant forward, his elbows propped on the desk, his fingers steepled against his chin.

"That's not him." The voice came from the shadows, low and female.

The words, although softly spoken, had the effect of cold water dousing him from his stupor.

"Commander Hill." Leonard said, as he took his glasses off, and pinched the bridge of his nose, he was not having a headache, he told himself.

They were in one of those smaller communication rooms on the Helicarrier. Although 'smaller' was all relative. The man screen the same size as ones found in high tech movie theatres, with six screens on either side about the size of a medium plasma TV. Each screen had various images flickering across its surface, and every one was different: Tony Stark smiling and leaving with a 'mystery woman' according to the sly voice of the entertainment reporter. Another one having Iron Man destroying his enemies with great prejudice, his repulsor beams on full stream, incinerating a rogue meta human. There was Director Stark on Letterman, giving a self depreciating smile that caused the females - and more than a few males- to scream and swoon.

On the table in front of him were Leonard's notes. Word processed annotations, with expanded handwritten comments in the margins.

"It's him," Leonard said, not believing his own words, but saying them anyway. "He's happier now, a bit colder perhaps, but -"

"No."

Leonard knew Commander Hill well enough not to be offended by her brusqueness. Not a woman given to verbal games, or one to turn away wrath with a soft answer if a hard word was good enough. Commander Hill might have been many things, but she had flagged Tony Stark's condition as a due concern, and as such, he was willing to humour her - up to a point.

"Why wouldn't this be Tony Stark?"

"He wouldn't do that to Spiderman," she said, stepping out of the shadows towards the screen, and stopped. From his vantage point, Leonard saw the vertical line between her eyebrows as she frowned, her lips in a firm line as she scanned the features of Stark's face, and turned around.

"You have to understand something about Director Stark," her voice a bit softer, but no less firm. "He knows what he's doing is right, and he does it. But sometimes…" a pause for a few seconds, as if unsure of what to say. Leonard opened his mouth to prompt her, but she continued, "He's conflicted. With the SHRA, he has always been. He knows that it's the only way forward, but he struggles on, wounded from the loss."

"Maria, I didn't realise you were a poet."

"Hah, Dr Samson."

"Leonard. If we're going to talk about Director Stark and him not being whom you think he is, I think we need to be on a first name basis."

"Maria." she paused, shooting him a glare through narrowed eyes. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"I believe that he's prone to falling into dissociative fugue states, as he did on the Helicarrier, but he's recovered from that. It's as if the two weeks didn't happen. The human mind is elastic and -" _you_ don't believe me, do you?"

Maria turned from the screen, and slapped her hands against the desk, narrowing her eyes at him. "No, Leonard. I don't. The real Tony Stark... he wouldn't have killed Spiderman, he just _wouldn't_."

Leonard made himself heavy, aware of the back of his chair tilting with his weight. He pushed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, breathed heavily through his nose. Maria didn't say a word, just raised her eyebrows, and Leonard felt himself weaken.

"What are you asking me to do, Maria? To drag him in for testing again? Even though he's passed the psych eval?"

"Yes."

"I was afraid of that."

***

Before he became Sorcerer Supreme, Stephen Strange practiced medicine. A surgeon, to be precise, who focused on the peculiarities of his job to the exclusion of almost everything else. He did as such; through diligence and not caring about the patients beyond what they could offer him in terms of having his name as a by word for being the best, he thought of people as mannequins. You fixed their hands, or noses, or feet. Nothing existed beyond the procedure.

Tony Stark- his friend- a man of science, able to speak in the mathematical abstract, and yet had enough of the flair of the carny about him to make it relevant to everyone else. He distrusted magic, regarded religion and its rites as superstition. As such, he shouldn't be here. Neither of them -

Focus. Open the door, step over the threshold into -

Sooty fingers of malevolence pawing against his chest, thighs. Too close, too forward, an unwelcome molestation.

In a quick and sure move, Strange cast a circle of power around himself, the glowing lines of the pentacle for protection.

They were in the sanatorium, in one of the old fashioned seated rooms. Soft furniture, light and colours, a place for the very fragile and wealthy to convalesce in peace.

"Stephen," Tony hailed, looking at ease in white shirt and dark slacks. His shoulders against the wall, his face pale, almost chalky. Hmph, Stephen observed, cataloguing the changes in his friend. Longer hair, glittering eyes, long limbs, narrow bare feet, still Tony. "What brings you here? Had a change of heart re: the SHRA?"

"You won," Stephen acknowledged with a slight tilt of his head, as if they were friendly rivals verbally sparring over drinks after a keenly contested tennis match; rather than the knock down, dragged out fight that caused one of their best and brightest to die. "Congratulations."

When Tony smiled, his features slightly distorted, his teeth bared in a grotesque parody of his friend's grin, Stephen knew.

"What are you?" he demanded, raising his hands and crossing them at his wrists. A mudra of defence, just in case its powers got into the circle, and past the lines of the pentacle. Levels of protection, Strange knew, in order to weaken it and give himself enough room to manoeuvre.

The temperature in the room bottomed out, the punch of cold so sharp and brutal, it almost stole his breath. The howl of the wind echoing in the enclosed space of the room, so powerful, Stephen half expected the space to be torn apart by a blizzard. If he could feel it gnawing at the edges of his cast circle.

"Who am I?" the voice was deep and raspy, sandpaper against the unconscious. "That would be telling."

"You will _not_ stay here," Stephen hissed. "By the Hoary Hosts of Hoggoth, do you know what you've done, what you've made Tony do?"

"I made him better," a snarl, this _thing_ now apparent in Tony's countenance, his features twisted in a sneer. "Rid of the controls that held him back. An upgrade."

"You made him kill in cold blood," Stephen said, uncrossing his wrists, shaping his fingers into fists, smoothly moving into another mudra, fingers in a cradle, calling up another point of power. Focus on white light, on pulses from earth…

"Tony Stark has killed before?" Tony's head tilted as if in sudden thought. Thrown back as if it were a rag doll, before it righted again, eyes fixed on Strange, and lit with sudden understanding. "Yes, he has. Killed before. Mourned before. Buried it deep within, how…" and the smile crept across his face, slow and wicked, his canines a tad sharper. "Delicious. I think I shall enjoy this body. Feast on its memories."

"You're arrogant." Stephen's hands sketched an arc above his head, and he felt his nose itch, the nasal passages cracking, and he knew what it was before -"

"Me? I haven't come into my parlour and shed blood, you have."

A muted, wet cracking sound, as if someone knocked a car window in with a cloth covered fist.

The cast circle, its value compromised; a layer of protection, gone. He couldn't risk the other one, the demon was strong.

Blue eyes met grey, and Stephen knew he had to go, had to leave Tony behind. A hastily whispered incantation and he disappeared.

***

"Secretary Grynch, I'm sorry, you can't let Tony Stark go."

"Dr Samson, he's passed your psych evaluation, as well as two independent examiners. Commissioner Cooper has been impressed with the complete turnaround."

"With all due respect Sir, I'm concerned."

Both men were walking along a long corridor, passing by people, snatches of foreign languages as people passed by. They were in the main building of the United Nations, and even Harry Osborn had to grudgingly concede that Tony was-

"-sane, he's passed all the tests for meta humans as designed by himself and Reed Richards. You yourself wrote a glowing review."

"Sir."

Grynch peered at him over his glasses, his lips in a thin, unyielding line. Leonard stopped himself from folding his arms across his chest, by jamming his hands in the pockets of his suit.

"Dr Samson," Grynch reached over and clapped a hand on his shoulder. To show that they were comrades in arms, soldiers in the same foxhole. All faux band of brothers bullshit. "Steve Rogers is dead. Like him or no, Tony Stark is an original Avenger, and if there's anyone that can heal the rift among the meta humans, he can."

"He killed _Spiderman_, Secretary Grinch," Leonard struggled to keep his voice level. "He's shown no remorse. You've dealt with Tony Stark, you know what he's like."

"With the Avengers, yes," Grinch said, as he let his hand fall from Leonard's shoulder, and fixed his eyes on Leonard's face. "Tony Stark was different at the beginning. They all were. But circumstances change, and we either get dragged with them, or get left behind."

"Tony gets a pass and gets out there."

"You passed him, we need him. You have twenty four hours to do what you want do. After that, you stand down. Understand?"

Grynch turned and walked away, leaving Leonard standing in the corridor, listening to the voices bouncing off the walls. His hands still clenched into fists, his nails biting into his palms. He might not have the power to hand to help him, but someone else might.

***

Stephen stepped through the wall and stumbled into his inner sanctum. As soon as his feet touched the wooden floor, his clothing transformed into a smart suit; including waist coat and cravat. Just because one was safely ensconced in one's abode, it did not mean that he had to let himself go. An absent tug on the lapels of his jacket, and Wong glided into the room, silver tea service in his hands.

"Master." Wong greeted formally, as he placed the tray on the low coffee table, in front of the cosy seating chair.

"Wong."

Something in his voice must have alerted Wong to his disquiet, because Wong grew still, his features shifting into an impassive mask. Yes, Wong was a lightning rod to his moods, able to adjust to what was needed. The adage _Good help was hard to find_ did not apply to his manservant at all.

Normally, scones, tea and lashings of cream would have been the ticket for Stephen. After a day of throwing off magic, of warding off variations of The Eye, he would be ravenous. All magic demanded fuel. Fragrant teas, sweet and hot, served scones, the fantastic smear of butter accompanied with lashings of honey. A cleansing meditation, with supper to follow; chicken fricassee with vegetable pilaf and a good red.

He thought of Tony, being held by… _that thing_ and his appetite fled.

"Master Strange?"

Strange shook his head, clearing it from detritus of his wonderings, and turned to face his manservant. "Wong?"

"I asked, if I can be of service?"

"If only, Wong," Stephen said, as he titled his chin, and held his shoulders erect, kept his own counsel until Wong glided from the room, leaving the tea service behind.

Once Stephen was alone, his shoulders sagged, and he tucked his hands into his trouser pockets. If he had to break, he preferred to do it without witnesses.

"If only."

***

"He passed the psych eval?"

Leonard sympathised with Maria's incredulity because he felt the same way. "I could only hold him for twenty four hours, so... yes."

"Dr Strange, what did he -?"

"I haven't seen him since I left him with Director Stark," Leonard sighed, as he scanned the notes from the independent examiners on his stark tech mobile, feeling Maria's head beside his shoulder, her eyes on his smart phone. "Even if he thought the worst, he's a Sorcerer."

"Who has yet to sign on to the SHRA."

"_Commander_ Hill," with a frustrated sigh, Leonard ran his hand through his hair. They were on the Helicarrier, in the engine room. Maria assured him that this would be the only place where the powers that be couldn't eavesdrop. "Now is not the time to dig up the SHRA, and rehash who fell on the side of what."

Neither of them said anything for the while, the hum of the engines filling the silence with their drone. They weren't loud as they used to be, and Leonard knew that Stark had built a better engine, using some technological hoodoo to dampen the noise and vibration to a low hum. He felt Maria shift beside him, her chin brushing against the shoulder seam of his suit jacket, as she raised her head to his.

"It broke him, you know."

"Hmm?"

"The SHRA. Captain America's surrender and death." Maria ran the instep of her boot down the back of her calf. "To - _Director Stark_-" she corrected herself before clearing her throat. "He isn't one to show it, he just crams it down here-" a clenched fist as she did a sharp move from her chin to her stomach. "Keeps it moving, gets it done. But despite everything, he wouldn't… he wouldn't have killed Spiderman."

"They have it as self defence, the Meta Human council-"

"Bull. Shit." Maria said through gritted teeth, enunciating each word as if it were a full sentence, a wealth of expression. "This isn't Tony Stark; you know it too, Leonard."

"I am a man of science," Leonard said desperately, pleading with her to understand. "I-"

"You've felt it, you know it." Maria's voice was quiet now, but no less intense. "Or else you wouldn't have called Strange. You saw what he did to Spiderman."

_Iron Man caught Spiderman by his neck. Spiderman struggled, tried to raise his hand for webbing, only it to be blasted by Iroman's repulsor. The screams haemorrhaged from him, curdling the blood in their veins. His hand now a cauterized, smoking stump. The -_

"The air smelt of burning flesh and cloth," Maria continued, unwittingly picking up Leonard's thoughts. For a moment both of them were in the control room watching the video again. "I was on the scene," her swallow was audible. "That wasn't him."

"Maria-"

"If you can't or _don't_ want to see to Dr Strange, I'll go it alone."

Leonard adjusted his glasses and looked at her. Ah yes, she had that firm set to her jaw that he knew very well. He was tempted to let her do it, give her Dr Strange's address, and wish her a safe journey. In addition to everything else, if push came to shove, Maria was trained to fight, if needed, not him.

Her eyes were a deep brown, her cropped hair and SHIELD uniform only underscored the fact that … Oh, God, he was going to regret this.

"I can't let you go alone."

"Thank you."

*** 

"We're doing what?" Leonard laughed, and Maria heard the undercurrents of hysteria in his voice. Soon, if they weren't careful, he would be rocking to and fro, mumbling "I'm a man of science" under his breath, a mantra to keep him on this side of sane. Whatever worked, as long as it made him useful.

"You did well, Dr Samson, in coming to me. Your suspicions were correct, that isn't Tony Stark."

"Commander Hill." Leonard demurred, generously giving Maria credit where it was due.

"Commander Hill," Dr Strange raised his eyebrows in a question. "I'd never have believed that you were so..."

Maria raised her eyebrows as well, refusing to give him an out.

"_Sensitive_," he finished.

_Smooth move, Dr Orpheus._ she thought before lifting the glass of juice at the table in front of her and taking a sip. It might have been sweet, or sour. She didn't know.

"Let's go through this again. You are going to cast a circle, go on the astral plane, and see if you can 'find' Director Stark?"

"Yes. Depending on the demon, Director Stark might be trapped inside, experiencing everything it does, and unable to do anything to stop it. "

"Wait, and you didn't tell us that it was Stark, on the day I called you into the sanatorium. You -?"

"If the entity had known that you knew who it was, you'd have been in danger. Suspicious is one thing, and it humoured the psych eval, but if you had pushed it anymore… There are reasons for it playing along as it did, and we shall find out. The game is now afoot." Dr Strange cut in, as he stood up and clapped his hands. The drink dissolved from Maria's hand, along with the furniture, and she found herself seated on the ground, the wood warm against her seat and thighs.

"But-"

"Silence, Dr Samson, whilst I cast the Circle of Protection. All I ask from you and Commander Hill is to focus on myself and Director Stark."

Dr Strange raised his hands to chest height, middle fingers meeting in the middle. His legs together, and even though they were in his living room, Maria would swear later that a breeze rose up from nowhere, carrying the heady fragrance of incense, as if she were in a church and no, that thought was sacrilegious.

A spark on her thigh, and Maria rubbed at it absently with her fingers, surprised that the warmth came through her shield uniform.

"You two need to sit across from each other, while I am in the circle. Whatever happens, I only ask that you keep my body safe."

"How are we going to do that?" Leonard got on one knee, and Maria half expected him to scramble to his feet, only for Dr Strange to pin him with a look. He sank back down to the floor, and drew his feet under him.

Dr Strange didn't answer immediately. He walked around the circle, using his toe to nudge Maria in its perimeter, tilting his head this way and that. When he seemed satisfied enough- if the purse of his lips were a hint -he walked in the middle of the circle, and sat down, lotus position, with crossed legs, the backs of his hands resting on his thighs.

"If I go into great distress, I need you to hold me down and whisper _incedo_."

"That's it?"

"Magic at first begins with will, aimed at what we charge to change, Commander Hill. If you don't believe, I might not wake up. Shall we proceed?"

***

"Dr Stephen Strange, we meet again."

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."

"Again."

"Touché, madam." Stephen said. He found himself kneeling on tatami, with the trappings of the tea ceremony in front of him, and raised his eyes to look at his companion. She was clad in white silk robes with ornate folds trimmed by the palest of greys. She wore an oversized white wig, her chest flattened by an oversized obi. All in all, she was a beautiful Japanese woman, her skin the palest alabaster, her features made more defined by the _kumadori_, done not in the bold lines of red and blue, but in silver grey. Of all the entities that resided in Tony's unconscious, this-

"Not what you expected, Dr Strange?"

"And you are-?" he said, because her face looked familiar, and he couldn't place his finger on it.

"The handmaiden of Death, perhaps."

"You wear white."

"In your culture, white is purity. Something for a virgin bride to wear on her day to her betrothed, spun lace given to gentlewomen. Babies wrapp'd in for their naming days. In some cultures, white is death. Winter, the end of all things."

"Tony is -"

"Flexible, malleable, weighted by death. So much death, by his hand. Directly, indirectly. He buries it under snow."

"He didn't kill Peter."

"Not directly," the wraith smiled. "He had it locked in his memories, we let it out. There was this blond man, and -" she giggled behind her fingers like a shy school girl. "Tony had means to kill him. Fifty ways to kill your lover." she sang, the Simon and Garfunkle tune sounding musical and frightening. "He couldn't, he forced it down. Tony thinks he's sooooo good. He doesn't want to be a monster."

Stephen Strange had studied magic for over twenty years, came armed with spells and magics, but as sure as he knew his name, he knew that he wasn't-

"You can't fight me, no." she said, lifting a cup to her lips, holding it in one hand, the tips of her fingers touching its bottom.

"You're…" Stephen shook his head, unable to believe as her face clicked into his mind. Tony's lady love who died a year ago, and he never spoke about her as far as he knew. "You're … Rumiko. Rumiko Fujikawa."

"No," she pursed her lips in a moue, and gave him a quizzical look. "I'm Sorrow."

***

 

How many minutes had passed since Stephen Strange went on the 'plane' as he called it, Maria didn't know. Surreptitiously, she looked at her watch, it had only been fifteen minutes since Dr Strange went walkabout.

Wong, Dr Strange's mojodomo glided across the room, muttering words in a language she didn't catch. His fingers, deft and clever, threw shadows against the walls of flickering candle light, as he moved along the windows and doors of the sitting room.

"What is he doing?"

"Forming wards," Leonard answered, slipping off his glasses and dragging the palm of his hand over his face. "I can't believe I said that."

Maria drew her legs closer to her torso, wrapping her arms around them and resting her head on her knees, as she looked across at her companion.

"Magic, huh? A defence is a defence, I suppose," she said.

"In the Middle Ages, schizophrenia, bipolar, hallucinations… they were considered to be signs of possession. It wasn't until Jung and Freud's' studies in the late nineteenth century when the human psyche started to be defined. To have this happen in the twenty first century," - a wave of the hand, taking all their surroundings in- "it was easier to believe that Tony was just ill, not that he was…"

"Possessed," Maria shook her head, "I can't believe it either."

"But you knew," Leonard slipped his glasses back on, and turned to face her, taking care not to have his body outside of the circle. Wong had a bit of magic - Jesus- that could save him, but not them. "You knew that it wasn't Tony Stark. You told me on two different occasions, and I-"

In a flash, Maria realised the reason for Leonard's odd behaviour, his hesitance on each occasion. "You feel guilty," she breathed, not daring to believe. "You think that if you -"

"Maria -"

"Dr Samson," she addressed him by his formal title, cutting him off, because they didn't need to waver now, not if what Dr Strange said was true. "You listened. You noted my concerns and followed through. That's all that matters now, nothing else."

"I hope we can save him," Leonard whispered, and the words were said with as much reverence as a prayer. Maria clamped her teeth together, and focused on the flutter of Wong's hands as he sketched patterns by the door. Things were crazy enough that she didn't even start at how the door glowed once, as if a switch were turned on and then off. She didn't waste words on prayer. They were here to guard Strange's body. She touched her fingers to her semi automatic pistol on her hip, looked at the potted rue that decorated Strange's window, and waited.

***

In all the Great Gaze, Stephen didn't believe that he would ever fight Captain America, yet here he was. But this Steve was different, about four metres tall, his shield an expanse of red and blue with a white star, and swinging towards him like a scythe.

"By the Hairy Hosts-!" he exclaimed, quickly arcing a dome of protection around him, the force of the shield making the outline of the dome vibrate. I can't tarry, Stephen thought, as he took flight, zig zagging around giant gloved hands trying to grab him, but missing and grabbing the fabric of the mind that surrounded them instead. Sparks arced, wires and cables dangled, from the fabric. The air was electric, literally, the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up. Magic would keep him insulated.

"You are a chimera," Stephen hissed, "you are not the man I knew."

"How would you know, Dr Strange?" Censure rolled from this Steve's lips, his voice as resonant as thunder. "You sided against us in the SHRA. The case can be made that _you_ aren't the man I know."

"I took no sides," Stephen defended himself, as he moved out of the reach of the shield again, jumping around, trying not to project his movements, because he wanted to avoid Steve's hands. Big hands, ones that grasped, grabbed, held.

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. You did _nothing_."

"I-" Stephen, said, at pains to defend himself because well, it was Captain America. "I didn't support the SHRA-"

"You didn't fight!"

"I-" Stephen hesitated, and that might have been a mistake, as he was caught in a scarlet gloved hand, his bones rubbing and dragging against each other. Muscles strained and ripping, _levels of pain_ so intense, they had _sound_. So sharp and stabbing as fingers crushed around his ribcage he couldn't breathe; found no energy to cry out.

"You did _nothing_. You killed me, as sure as Tony Stark did."

_I… didn't_ Stephen projected, too weak to speak. He shouldn't be held hostage to the pains racking his body, to black bits at the edges of his vision, he … mustn't…

Mayhap this had been a -

As suddenly as caught, the vice grip in the gloved hands slackened, Steve's eyes became blank, as the light left them. His features slackened, grew blank. His uniform going from pristine to shredded, looking just like he did when he had been

-shot

-on the steps

The picture of Steve slain on the steps in the papers all over the world, the roll of emotion pummelling his senses like it did then. A heartfelt pang of despair, the world in a convulsion of grief laden madness, a ragged aria of melancholy that ripped through Stephen's mind as he fell.

Falling.

His body slammed against the ground, every bone vibrating from the impact.

Shaky, willing himself not to retch, Stephen got to his knees, his eyes focused on red rocket boots.

"Stephen," Tony said, and Providence be praised, he sounded the same. Stephen raised his head, took in his friend's features.

Tony's repulsors were still smoking from their burst, and Stephen looked over, not surprised to see Steve on the steps of the courthouse, with Sharon cradling him in her arms, a bloody _Pieta_. Her hair a blonde curtain over their features, her voice tear sodden. "Steve," she sobbed brokenly. "Steve."

"I killed him," his features hardened in that impassive mask Stephen knew well. His eyes were glassy, sheeted with emotion. "Again."

Then, as if he only just realised that he had company, Tony's features took on a polite cast. His voice light, as if Strange had paid him a social call.

"Stephen," he greeted. "Of all the minds in the world…"

"Hail and well met," Stephen replied, as he squinted at Tony, clad in his Iron Man armour, his helmet under his arm. It wasn't Tony, not when he could see through him, and in this part of the mind, it was as if they were standing on circuitry, the floor … green, and Stephen leaned over to peer at its surface, and lifted his foot. At the first glance, it reminded him of an arial view of a city. But, surely that was a socket, and those were PCI and ISA slots. Might this be an oversized… motherboard?

"I'm an avatar." Tony's smile was all too brief and self mocking. "Welcome. I wish there had been a better time…"

"Same," Stephen got to his feet, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "Your form is under siege. I met a delightful _kaidan_ called Sorrow."

"There are many," Tony said. "She's the least of my problems."

"Why am I not surprised?"

_People lie about death._

Despite their murmured assurances to the contrary, it is triumphant. It burns a hole in your soul, snatches its victory without ceremony. Beware the poets and the singers who promise you otherwise; the clocks still tick, your heart goes on beating, and you breathe. Each inhalation is akin to going under water, heart convulsing, your lungs drown with anguish.

It is cruelty, because you're conscious that you're dying too… but you suck in air, and move. The handle of the coffin is deadweight in your hands, strain tearing at your shoulders, neck. The sky is leaden; the clouds have clustered together, shedding bitter tears. They splatter and trickle down clusters of black umbrellas.

Grief has a wild heart, and strong arms. It lingers until you step to the podium and see the sweep of humanity before you. They wait for you to shepherd them through, for you to lie to the them about death as well.

"It… wasn't… supposed to be this way…"

She wraps her arms around your chest and steals your voice. Her whispers fill your ears with the roar of water, the thump of blood.

If you'd seen further, planned it better, gotten it sooner… you would have cheated death. She lies with you at nights, takes your fingers in her mouth, and revels in your anguish.

Becomes pregnant with your doubts.

Grief begats rage.

"After Steve's death, I might have been… depressed," Tony said, his hands tweaking and twisting the wires. They were in some sort of grid, nothing but 000s and 111s flowing in front of Stephen's eyes so fast; it was nothing but a blur of green. He might not have been able to note the symbols, because they weren't his beloved Sanskrit, nor were they the wedges of Cuneiform, that he taught himself to read after intensive periods of study.

"Indeed." Stephen agreed.

"So I threw myself into the Fifty State Initiative. The fight with The Mandarin." Tony moved away from Stephen, his hands skimming over virtual keys. Everything neon highlighted against black, as if it were one of those strange movies from the nineteen eighties, its harsh colours and contrast the director's nod to a dystopian future. Wong would be better placed to name the movie and -

"Is your nose any better?"

Stephen waved away Tony's concern with one hand while pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. "Continue," he said.

"The thing with depression is… it makes you indulgent," Tony's tone was a matter of fact, and all the more poignant. "You stay, you deny. It's quicksand, it's drama. It's banal. You drown yourself in sorrow; only to wake the next day. It's -"

"Everything and nothing," Stephen whispered, as he held his hands out before him, ignoring the bloody streak on his glove. Flexed his fingers, and willed his hands into loose fists, because they were still too damaged to completely grasp anything. "The rock transmogrifies into loose sand and the house you built on it…"

Tony nodded his agreement. "Since my mind is linked with the extremis, my depression, my… _fugue states_-as Leonard Samson calls it, became real. The best way for it to become real is through a state of anthropomorphism, like -"

"Sorrow."

"Precisely," Tony said, as he reached up, and out of nowhere, dragged another screen down from midair, and Stephen Strange frowned at the strange contours of the landscape before him before he realised - "the frontal lobe," he mused, because there were certain things that you never forgot. "Planning, organising, problem solving ... By the Mystic Moons of Munnopour Tony, you aren't host to a demon. It's -"

"Me." Tony's laughter was perilously too close to a sob for Stephen's comfort, and disquieted, he turned away. "That's me, impotence and anger manifest. I thought if I pushed it down, put it away, it would be gone. If I didn't focus on the rage, and just got the job done, the SHRA passed, things would get better. But it didn't, it hasn't. The depression, I didn't deal with. I just kept on going, kept pushing it back into the corners…"

"Only for rage to creep in," Stephen pressed his fingers against his temples, because he too knew the story well. At the end of the day, the accident had been his fault, and he 'only' lost the use of his hands. Tony lost his friends, his fortune, and his name. "It coalesces, becomes powerful, and unleashes more rage. It's a... Pandora's box without hope. With your enhanced projectile, it might destroy…"

"Or tap into everything with a computer. Feed on it, get control. According to my calculations, it's at seventy eight percent and growing. It's been creeping and tapping into various systems for the past year, and I've only just realised… It wants control," Tony closed his eyes, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "So that there will be no more heroes slain in the course of duty. Metahumans identified and protected from birth, and those who go against it. Spiderman had to be made an example of."

Tony stopped, let out a shaky breath, as he wiped at his eyes. "Peter. I killed Peter."

Stephen held his tongue; the acknowledgement of the horror had to be enough.

"I know." Tony's eyes were pained, "I can't reason with it, I can't apply ethics to the logic, I'm not in control anymore, and I stopped being in control a long time ago."

"How?" and Stephen held up his hands, the puzzle falling into place. Tony unable to speak at the funeral, his complete turnaround afterwards, as he got the Fifty State Strategy into place, his pressing the flesh with The Order and -

"You stopped being in control when Rogers - _Tony_. You could have asked for help."

With a short, sharp laugh, Tony shook his head. "From whom? Even those who sided with me haven't completely forgiven me for killing Steve."

"You didn't."

"I didn't pull the trigger, no. But I sure as hell made him a -"

Tony's words were cut off by a violent roll of the ground beneath their feet. By the Demons of Denak, an earthquake on this plane? They were only in Tony's mind, and - Lights flickered on and off, around them, synapses misfiring. It might have been a fit, or another bit of his mind shutting down, reshaping. At first, Stephen thought it was thunder, its vibrations seeping into the walls of Tony's mind, only for a wall to start to crumble. Quickly, Stephen summoned a shield of protection , but he knew that the act although well intentioned, only bought them a little time.

"Tony." Stephen raised his gaze to his friend's and swallowed. He didn't want to say it, because once they were uttered, the words would only maximise their power. However, Tony Stark had no such respect when it came to magic, just bald facts.

"It's me," he agreed.

***

Every time Leonard closed his eyes, it felt as if a fine layer of grit were between his lids and his eyeballs. He wanted to sleep, had been up since six am, and sitting across from Maria, in a circle of protection? Well -

A moan ripped through the still air, and his training kicked in. Leonard scrambled to Dr Strange's side, his fingers instinctively finding Stephen's pulse.

"What is it?"

Maria was on one knee, her hand on the handle of her gun.

"He's… I don't know," Leonard said, lifting his head as the shadow fell across Stark's frame. It was Wong.

"Master Strange is- it happens when you're on the plane, sometimes. We don't disturb him until it's necessary."

"When do you know it's necessary?" Maria asked.

"You'll know," Wong said, "be ready to wake him when you know."

***

"By the -"

"Not now, Stephen. Not. Now." Tony said, as the walls of their shelter fell down around them. They faced … armour. Three giant robots.

This was Tony Stark's psyche, and in the roof of the mainframe, instead of constellations, were the people he lost, personal and professional. Howard. Maria. A blonde Stephen never knew. Jack of Hearts. Rumiko. Tiberius. Steve. Happy. Friends, family and lovers were distant, faint holograms that floated above them, merging between faces of love and good humour, to masks of hate and scorn.

Happy in the hospital bed, linked to the tubes that kept him breathing. His eyes fluttering open, only for the machines to switch off, closing avenues of escape, and him screaming in the shell of his dying body, his voice box mute, suffocated by his failing lungs.

_I'm alive, Boss. I'm alive -_

_You could have saved me_, Rumiko, her face pale, her hair an inky stream over her shoulders and breasts. Her arms outstretched, the tips of her fingers had eyes limpid with love for him, only for them to harden, and her to scream, _ Whom you love… you kill! You were never good enough!_

A shift, a skip in the image, as if someone tapped the hologram, and she was clad in white silks, nothing but white. Her eye lashes, hair and lips white, and she was death.

_No, I am Sorrow. Love me, Tony. Together, we create rage. Potent and beautiful._

"No." Stephen felt Tony's quiver of breath beside him. "I - no."

"Disperse!" Stephen commanded, as he spread his arms wide, causing the holograms to pixelate, and fade into mid air. "We have to focus, Tony," he cried. "This - "

The scream of metal swallowed the rest of his words, as the three robots lifted from the ground and floated. Standing side by side, like matching toys in a box.

Silver with black, black with red. Red with gold.

_Thoom_!

Not just a noise, but waves of high pitched din in their ears. Stephen floated up and away, feeling Tony flying right beside him as they tried to get as much distance between them and the machines - who seemed to be - merging into each other?

"Great, just great," Tony gave a sad little laugh. "That's how I see myself? A giant mecha?"

Which were fast, and agile, as it took to the air, each giant robot fifteen meters and twenty tons of bulk. Stephen swerved, trying to call up some help on the this particular plane, but - "My magic doesn't work here, not in the ways that it should."

"My mind doesn't believe in it --- not totally," Tony's voice came out in metallic tones. "That might be the reason."

"How utterly distasteful," Stephen aimed a bolt of magic at the hand of the mecha, only for it to dissipate into nothingness. "Didn't you ever go to Disney world?"

"Ha," Tony fired at the robot's torso, only for the rays to rebound. "Funny."

Soon, too soon they were on the defensive. The mecha was fast, but Stephen was faster, as he called up a tornado, enough for it to smash the mecha to the ground, only for it merge into the motherboard. Three became six. Six became thirty six. They were multiplying exponentially.

"By the Hoary Hosts of - there's _more_?"

"This isn't the time to tell you how I thought technology could be self spawning, right? Like amoebas? Or bacteria?"

"No," Stephen said.

After that, they had no time to speak. The robots seemed to be _everywhere_, and Stephen tried every trick at his disposal. But his magic worked oddly here, which was vexing, and draining.

A multitude of armoured Iron Men, from the clunky, chunky grey robot an epoch ago technology wise, to the silver and red models, and all shades in between. Underwater, War Machines.

Desperate now, Stephen conjured a spell and aimed it at a mecha, making its surface shiny. Simultaneously, he angled it in front of a beam aimed at another robot, only for the beam to ricochet, and blast the robots to bits.

"We are-" _barely thinning the herd_, Stephen was about to say, before he caught a bolt to the chest and for the second time that night, he slammed into the ground.

***

Strange's body twitched and twisted in macabre shapes, and Leonard winced. He didn't want to move him not just yet while his limbs were still flailing, but he had to be restrained, just in case he hurt himself.

"Strange is losing."

"Maria -"

"You know he is," Maria shot to her feet, yanked her communicator from the pocket of her jacket, flicking it on, and barked her orders. "Protocol alpha whiskey zulu, authorisation code, number five, nine, seven, six, eight delta."

"Commander Hill, stand by one."

Leonard scrambled to his feet, stepped over Dr Strange's body, and grabbed Maria's wrist. "You can't do that."

"Dr Strange is in distress, Leonard. You know what it means."

"I just- God." Leonard closed his eyes briefly, opened them. "Commander Hill…" he murmured, "Maria, please."

For a brief moment, they stared at each other; the candle light flicked across her features, throwing shadows across her cheeks, her eyes sober. "I -"

"Commander Hill, authorisation code accepted. Over."

Maria shook her head, and turned away. "I'm sorry."

***

"We're losing."

"Yes, we are." Stephen said, clutching his side, each breath made his sides _ache_. This would smart when he woke up, he knew it.

"We're on the defensive," Tony said, as he yanked his helmet off. Stephen sat up, frowning where they found themselves. A -"

"Panic room." Tony explained, as Stephen noted the smooth walls, one wall seemingly made out of glass, the landscape in front of them mutating into nothing but locking circuitry. Each machine using its gauntlets to rake the circuit board floor only for micro machines to issue forth in streams; transforming into other formations of his armour on the spot, a dragoon of electronic spartoi.

"Remarkable," Strange muttered, morbidly fascinated. "Absolutely remarkable."

Tony raked his fingers through his hair, his features impassive. "All this rage," he muttered, "I can't stop it, and you're wounded."

"How did you…" Stephen started, because something bothered him. "The first time we met, I used magic, and you still got through my defences."

"I don't believe in it, remember? I changed the temperature, to put you on the defensive, manipulated the atmospheric pressure in the room so gravity would press on you. It feels uncomfortable, if done well. If you'd stayed longer, you might have blacked out."

"That's it," Stephen murmured. "Black out."

Tony swallowed, "Yes."

"Tony," Stephen raised his eyes to his friend's.

"I know," Tony raised his fists to his chest, on level with his chest plate. "There is no other conclusion; I've done the calculations, run through the scenarios. Stephen, I didn't want this, I never wanted this."

"I'll stay with you." Stephen drew himself to his feet, visualising the pain as something to be contained, to be scooped into a bowl, and put aside.

"No," Tony shook his head, blinking his eyes rapidly for a few seconds. "I have enough dead people in my head."

And Stephen knew what Tony was going to do. "NO!" he said, but too late, he was trapped in a pod, resistant to spells and magic. "No, no, no." Stephen snarled his frustration, as he tried to find its weak points, a spell for affecting the integrity of design. But no such luck, as he felt it slowly levitate from the floor.

"Tony."

As if Tony heard, he raised his head, thin streams of blood trickling from his nose.

_ Grief has a wild heart, and strong arms. She's seductive, pulls you into her cavern of despair, begats you a child._

Rage, who looks like you, weans on your impotence by supping on questions that you can't answer.

"Why did Howard and Maria Stark die?"

"If you were sober, you could have saved Heather, you know that, right?"

"What was Rumiko's last thought when she saw that Iron Man ?"

"Suppose you hadn't approached Jack of Hearts and asked him to join the Avengers, would he have still been alive?"

Soon, too soon, the questions give way to shouted accusations, "You killed Rumiko! You made Steve die!"

Grief draws Rage against her breast, as he cries sloppy, hysterical tears, and swears by the dead to do better, be better.

Carding her fingers through his ink black hair, she kisses him full on the mouth, lifts her stare to yours. For the first time since you've known her, her cheeks and lips now have colour; she smiles and it is a benediction, a promise.

The son will usurp his father.

***

"Target sighted, projected to enter latitude 40, 43' 42", longitude 074-00'11" W in ten."

"Shit," Maria muttered, as she reached for her gun, checked its safety. "He's coming for us."

"But Strange isn't -"

"Wake him now! Or we'll lose them both."

"Where are you going? You can't leave the circle. "

"To buy us some time."

Unable to help himself, Leonard grabbed for Maria's shoulder, and found his fingers tangled in her jacket. "Maria, if you step out of the circle-"

"If you want your arm back in one piece, you need to give me mine. Now."

"Commander Hill -"

"Wake him up, Dr Samson." Maria pointed her chin in the direction of Dr Strange, her voice stern. But she stayed within the confines of the circle.

Leonard nodded, as he let her go.

***

"Stephen, how -?"

"I thought about how you made it, and then unmade it, and it worked."

"Hah, reverse engineering …" Tony laughed, and looked outside, nothing but machines and mecha, and instantly became sober. "You think?"

"You don't believe in magic," Stephen held out his hand to Tony. "So let's go with another approach. I'm going to ask you to believe in logic, and-"

`Reverse engineering is the process of discovering how and why particular technology works, by breaking down its structure, function and operation. Simple, because Tony knew his own machines by heart. He built this mecha, because you never knew when you'd be attacked by giant robots from Cybertron. Tweak the torso, visualise the body and take it back to the plans, to the basics -`

"We do not have time for your indulgence, Tony."

"You can't hurry art," Tony tried to keep his voice light, but he understood, because he could feel himself -

_ Janice's eyes are cornflower blue, blank and unseeing. Her neck, slender and lovely, lolls against your arm. She's still and although you're enclosed in iron, you swear you can feel the heat and life ebbing from her body. Anguish pricks at your heart, makes your throat close, and for a moment, you see the world through water-_

"You can go about reverse engineering in many ways, Stephen. The last armour I built, I saw it in my mind, moving from polymesh to solid CAD models. It is not enough to build -"

_ "Do you love me Tony?" Heather asks, her voice is halting, and she self consciously picks at the tracks in her arms, rubs her hands over her distended belly. The sour mix of piss and hopelessness in this small room with its soiled carpet would have been unbearable in his other life. He doesn't love her, no. He loves not being alone with his destruction._

"Yes," he says, and they both know that he lies. You can't love anything other than your addiction, but she gives him a ghost of a smile anyway.

"We're thinning the herd," Stephen said, seeing everything through the eye of Agamotto. There are sizable numbers of robots that just simply… disappear, replaced by drifting bits of blueprints, and toy models. He glanced at Tony, noted the grey cast to his complexion, the pinched features. Tony moved his hand over his heart and -

_Stephen is here, in the last inch of Tony's mind._

Love is the measure of loss, he knows. Each loss leaves a space, adds to a burden, and Tony tries to plan better…

But sorrow is Janice and Maria and Happy and Howard and Rumiko and Steve and the Avengers. Its taste is sour, and as sure as he is alive, he knows that they can't win. They won't win, because you can't reverse engineer wild emotions of guilt and regret. They don't have enough time

"Incedo."

_Stephen is disappearing, becoming mist, and Tony takes his hand away, turns his gauntlets towards his heart. His eyes are calm, accepting, and -_

Stephen's eyes and mouth open, and he's sucked into his body against his will, like water down a drain. His shoulders against the floor, his back arcing towards the ceiling, and he can't go back, because he is kitten weak and -

Hands are holding him down, a calm voice, drifts on the edges of his mind, tugs him to this plane. "Easy, you're here, we'll get you into bed. Hold on, Doctor."

Leonard Samson is not a stupid man; he reads the story in Stephen's eyes, looks towards Commander Hill, and gives a short, curt nod.

"On my mark, shoot." Maria snaps into her communicator, as she scrambles towards the door.

Before Stephen tumbles into darkness, he knows that Tony is gone.

***

Tony Stark's face flashes across the screen. The date blinking in the upper right hand corner marks the reel as being from a year ago. He's clad in a dark suit that is well cut, skims his frame, complete with a white shirt and no tie, a business man in front of Captain America and the rest of the meta humans. It is a good choice of costume, Leonard admits. Tony Stark is a human, one of us, just a lot richer and good looking, the lack of tie suggesting comfort, like your well dressed friend reintroducing mutual acquaintances. Tony launches into the spiel, presenting the New Avengers.

The pop and flash of cameras, the forest of microphones along the podium and Tony's smile only grows wider, as he patters on.

Leonard freezes the frame, brings Tony's face in close up.

"He was happy."

"Dr Strange," Leonard says, not surprised at Strange's appearance. It has been a week since Director Stark was killed in action, and Strange is still ill. Leonard wants to warn him against exerting himself, and being on the astral plane is technically a no-no, but he bites his tongue, because Doctors make the worst patients.

" Resurrecting the Avengers," Dr Strange sighs, his form flickering to and fro, floating on the surface of the table before Leonard. Strange is in the lotus position, his cape flowing around him. "It would have killed him if he hadn't, otherwise."

"It killed him anyway."

"It's better to have a terrible ending than a horrible story without a conclusion, Dr Samson."

All Leonard can say is, "Perhaps."

Dr Strange disappears.

***

 

Tony Stark's funeral is not a patch on Captain America's. For one thing, the sky is blue, the sun beats around his head and shoulders with its relentless cheer. The superheroes do not show up, because the wounds from the SHRA have yet to heal, and Spiderman's death still hangs on the air. It is another thing Director Stark will never be forgiven for.

Henry Hellrung's eulogy is very good. He is funny, charming and at the end of it, poignant. "When beggars die, there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the deaths of princes. Tony-" his voice hitches on his friend's name. "The skies will go nova tonight."

Far too quickly, people drift away, leaving nothing but Leonard Samson looking at Tony Stark's headstone.

"His body isn't there."

"Maria."

It's the first time that he's seen Maria out of uniform. Her hair is still dark and cropped. She is clad in all black: coat, dress underneath, stockings and high heeled boots. Not too high, because Maria Hill is practical, and values competence over vanity.

"They sent him into space," Maria says, her hands in her pockets, as she walks over to stand in front of him.

"It might be for the best," Leonard says, noting the hint of red on her cheek, the purple red of her lips. Colour suits her, but then, so does everything.

They grow quiet, and Leonard finds himself looking at Tony Stark's headstone.

_Anthony Edward Stark. Inventor. Avenger. Friend._

"It's not your fault," she says. "You did the best that you could; we all did. Sometimes," her voice is infinitely softer now, her eyes sheeted with tears. "That's all we can hold on to. Although it sucks."

You loved him, Leonard wants to grab her by her shoulders and have the confession tumble out of her lips on to the grass around them. He doesn't, because she has lost more than he did. Instead, he opens his arms, and Maria walks into them. Her warmth makes the notes of her perfume bloom; she smells of cedar and chocolate. Slowly, Maria raises her face to his, and he sees her confession there, hears it in her sniffles. Leonard places his hand against her cheek, swipes at her tears with his thumb.

_After a great pain, a formal feeling comes_, the lines of the poem waltz into his head unbidden.

He will wait for her formal feelings.

Fin


End file.
